


Sorry Is Just Another Dirty Word

by socknonny



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Anger Management, Apologies, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 22:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13844520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socknonny/pseuds/socknonny
Summary: Billy refuses to say sorry unless he means it.





	Sorry Is Just Another Dirty Word

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, man... this ship...
> 
> I've fallen for Harringrove because I like to ship equals, and I think that Steve would be the kind of person who wouldn't take Billy's bullshit. I think this challenge would be what Billy needs to become a better person, and that Steve would also gain strength from Billy's refusal to submit to the rules society tries to put on him.
> 
> I also ship it because I spent a large portion of my life as angry as Billy. I didn't do any of the shit he did-god, no-and neither did I treat the people around me like he did, but I know what that anger feels like. I like this ship for the opportunities it presents to explore turning points, revisions, hindsight, and regrets. 
> 
> I'm on a sock puppet account because I can't be arsed dealing with antis right now. I might bring this back to my main account at some point, but not yet. Let me enjoy my ship in peace. Much love to all fellow shippers xx

Too far—it was a concept Billy didn’t understand until he’d gone well past it.

He remembered the sick crunch of bone beneath his knuckles, the scent of blood on the air, and it made him sweat. How many times had he heard that sound before, smelled that odour, and paid it no mind?

Maybe he should have cared all those other times, too, but he didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to waste his time with the therapy bullshit that counsellors were always trying to shove down his throat. (How do you _feel,_ Billy? What do you think that _means_ , Billy?)

He shoved the memory of those other times from his mind until there was only one left, the one he couldn’t stop thinking about. That time was different; it was all there was to it.

He threw his cigarette out the window of his parked Camaro, empty fingers twitching immediately at the loss, and turned off the stereo. It cut Halford off mid-scream, and the sudden silence left white noise ringing in his ears. He shoved open the door and let the sounds of the parking lot wash over him—laughter and insults and the insipid noise of students whining about tests they hadn’t studied for. Little shits. As if they had any idea how big the world really was—how small they were in turn.

He scanned the parking lot, but Harrington wasn’t here, hadn’t been here in days. Something had happened that night, something that had nothing to do with the fight. And despite Billy’s initial assumptions—the excuses, if he was honest, that he had given himself to lose control—it looked like Harrington might be the hero, not the villain.

The Chief of Police had dropped Max off after that night, after Billy had gotten the shit kicked out of him for coming home alone, covered in blood and refusing to explain what had happened. Billy had stood in the hallway, looking past Hopper’s shoulder to the sight of Harrington sitting in the front seat of the police car. Harrington had looked tired, fucked up, but somehow triumphant. Just like Hopper did. Just like Max.

Even Billy wasn’t arrogant enough to think Max looked like that because of the victory she’d won over him. And he wasn’t stupid enough to believe Hopper’s bullshit story about a car crash the kids had witnessed and assisted in managing. Harrington and Billy’s little step-sister looked like they’d fought monsters that night, far bigger monsters than him.

That would have been where it ended. Not one for contemplation, Billy was all too ready to shove the memory far away, drown it in booze and sex, and leave the mystery where mysteries belonged. But he kept hearing that sound, remembering that scent, and no matter what he did, he just couldn’t bury it deep enough.

He regretted beating Harrington up. There weren’t many things he regretted—he never gave himself the option—but he regretted that.

He was about to give up and go into class when the BMW came gliding into the parking lot. It swung into Harrington’s space, and for a moment, Billy felt hot rage rising in his chest. He could see Harrington’s bruises, even from here, and they reminded him of what he couldn’t forget no matter how hard he tried.

Slowly, he turned around and walked back down the steps, taking out his pack of cigarettes and sliding one between his lips. Harrington watched him walk over, the same fucked up yet triumphant look from that night back in his eyes. After a moment, he opened the door and stood, leaning back against the car, no more bothered by Billy’s approach than he would be by any of the idiots in this hick town.

The knowledge that Harrington wasn’t afraid made Billy twitch, even as it lit some fire deep inside him.

He lit his cigarette, took a drag, and blew the smoke in Harrington’s face. Harrington didn’t even cough.

“Got something to say, Hargrove?” Harrington asked, staring at a spot somewhere over Billy’s shoulder, like Billy wasn’t even worth looking at. “Or are you just enjoying the view?”

Billy grinned slowly, and then, before he’d even consciously decided what he was doing, stuck out his hand.

That got Harrington’s attention. He looked down at the hand and then back up to Billy’s face, his own expressionless.

“You need a step-by-step or something?” Billy ground out, cigarette tucked in the side of his mouth. “You grab the hand, shake it, try not to be a little bi—”

“Shut the fuck up, man.” The words lacked malice; if anything, they were tired. “Why do you want me to shake your hand?”

Billy drew his hand back and took another drag of his cigarette, this time blowing the smoke away from the two of them. “I shouldn’t have beat you up like that,” he said after a moment. The sincerity of the words felt foreign on his tongue. “I went too far.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah, well, let’s fucking shake on it, and then I can get around to ignoring all of you shitheads like my baby step-sister so gently suggested.”

Harrington raised one eyebrow at the acknowledgement of what Max had done, but made no move to shake his hand. “You’re real cut up about it, aren’t you?”

“You’re not?” Billy hadn’t meant to ask the question, but now he really wanted an answer.

“Doesn’t even phase me, man. Wasn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me. Wasn’t even the worst thing that happened to me that night.”

The anger flared again, filling Billy’s chest with heat, but he stamped it down. There was a little voice inside him that said _no, stop, you know what comes next._ He’d never heard that voice before, but it came with the sound of bone crunching, the smell of blood.

“Why won’t you shake on it, then?” He asked through gritted teeth, fighting to keep his cool.

Harrington laughed, the sound low and incredulous. “Because a handshake isn’t an apology.”

“I’m not fucking apologising.”

“Why not?”

Billy shifted his feet, edgy and uncomfortable. The voice wouldn’t shut up. It kept telling him not to push Harrington, not to turn this argument physical no matter how hard he wanted to. But without a fight… what did he have left? He had no road map for this scenario.

“I don’t say that word unless I mean it,” he said finally, spitting the words out.

“So, you’re not sorry.”

“No, I’m not fucking sorry. I regret it, probably shouldn’t have done it, but I had my reasons, and you’re not so fucking innocent either, Harrington.” He punctuated the words with short stabs to Harrington’s chest, cigarette held between his forefinger and middle.

Harrington pushed away from the car, a strange expression on his face that made the hair on the back of Billy’s neck lift up. It looked almost like disappointment.

“Then just forget about it. It’s done—move on. But I’m not shaking your hand.”

Then, he walked away, leaving Billy standing speechless behind him.

***

If Steve had to give a figure on how prepared he was to put up with Billy Hargrove’s bullshit, it would be in the negatives. And that was before the guy had beaten him to a pulp.

Nonetheless, there was something about the way Hargrove had looked when he was apologising—no, _trying_ to apologise—to him that Steve just couldn’t get out of his head. And maybe that was exactly it. Hargrove had been trying. He’d failed magnificently, but that hadn’t stopped him.

Steve had always picked Hargrove as the kind of guy who would point blank refuse to do anything that he found unpleasant; and yet, that morning, he had done it all the same. It was almost like Hargrove had been trying to grow up, or something—to be a man. And that realisation held a strange magnetism to it that had Steve stewing on the idea all day.

When he stepped onto the court that afternoon for practice, he fully expected Hargrove to be there, in his face, pushing him to breaking point—just like normal. But he wasn’t. Instead, he kept his distance from Steve, somehow managing not to come in contact with him even once.

It was as if he didn’t care about Steve anymore, as if the constant pull that drove him to Steve’s feet every day, all machismo and barely restrained violence, had just… vanished.

It was as if he’d actually listened to his goddamn step-sister.

Hargrove grinned at Tommy, feinting to the right and running his tongue along his bottom lip as he bowled him over on his way to the ring. Steve couldn’t look away.

As the ball shot through the hoop, Hargrove yelled in a triumph, a loud, primal cry that drew everyone’s attention. He pumped the air with his fist and met Steve’s eyes across the court, but he didn’t come towards him—just winked at him and turned away.

Steve barely listened to the coach at the end of practice, his eyes fixed instead on the blond mullet in front of him. Hargrove still had the ball tucked under one arm, his cocky stance full of self-assurance. By his side, his fingers twitched, like he was itching for a cigarette.

Steve wondered what it would be like to hear a genuine apology from Hargrove, and not some punk attempt at smoothing the waters. He wondered whether he’d accept the apology, or if that night fell in the realm of things that couldn’t be forgiven.

As they made their way into the locker room, he found himself trying to catch Hargrove’s eye. It was absurd, but he felt like if Hargrove would just look at him, Steve would know if their conversation this morning had meant anything, or if Hargrove had already forgotten about it.

But Hargrove ignored him, joking with Tommy in the showers before towelling himself dry and leaving without a backward glance.

***

The more Billy tried to forget, the more he kept remembering. It wasn’t just Harrington now, but other fights too. Nothing too concrete, just a flash of memory here and there—a sound, a name.

He used to spend his nights lifting weights in his room, Kill ‘Em All on repeat, until the sound of Susan shuffling down the hallway alerted him that his dad wasn’t far behind. Then, he’d switch to headphones and lie in the darkness, heartbeat thudding in his chest as he slowly came down from the high of exertion and fell asleep.

It wasn’t enough anymore. He’d lie there for hours, and his heartbeat wouldn’t slow, wouldn’t change; if anything, it got faster. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore, and he slid the window open and escaped.

By the time he reached the end of the street, he realised he had no fucking idea where he was going. He couldn’t start his car, because it was sitting in his driveway and his dad would hear. He’d go wake Tommy up and make him drive them somewhere out of town where they could get some booze, but Tommy lived all the way on the other side of town, and he didn’t like the shithead enough to walk there.

Eventually, he decided on the quarry. It was close enough to walk to, and there was bound to be someone there with something to drink or smoke. He just wished it wasn’t so goddamn cold here in Hawkins, and that he’d thought to put on something apart from his sweaty Metallica singlet.

When he saw the beam of headlights coming from behind him, he slid into the shadows, thinking it was his dad. But his dad didn’t drive a car that nice, and when he recognised the familiar head of coifed hair behind the driver’s seat, he was already moving into the light of the streetlamp before he was fully conscious of doing it.

Harrington did a double take, the car swerving a little, before he slammed on the brakes and just stared at him.

Billy grinned and waited. After a second, Harrington shook his head, muttered something Billy couldn’t hear, and opened the door.

“What the hell are you doing?” Harrington hissed at him over the roof. “I thought you were going to walk in front of the goddamn car.”

Billy saw a flash of metal glinting in the streetlamp and realised a familiar baseball bat was sitting on the passenger seat.

“Got a fun date planned?” he asked, staring at the bat and refusing to answer Harrington’s question.

Harrington snorted, ignoring Billy’s question just as smoothly. “What are you doing?” he asked again.

“Enjoying the summer breeze,” Billy said with a grin, fully aware that he was shivering in the cold. “It’s such a nice night in this beautiful town.”

Harrington shook his head. “Dipshit,” he muttered, getting back into the car and shutting the door. “Don’t fucking do anything illegal!” he yelled through the window before he drove off.

“I’m not the one carrying around a goddamn weapon!” Billy yelled after him, and then swore as he remembered he might still be within earshot of his house.

He broke into a run, cold air harsh in his lungs as he sprinted towards the quarry. By the time he arrived, he was sweating and warm, the night air refreshing instead of unwelcome. When he saw the BMW parked under the trees, he was hardly even surprised. It figured; he couldn’t escape Harrington in his head, so why would he be able to escape him out here?

Harrington didn’t say anything as Billy approached, just lay on the hood of his car, staring up at the stars. The bat lay beside him. Billy eyed it warily, but before he could say anything, Harrington held out a pack of cigarettes in silent invitation.

Billy took two, stuck one behind his ear and lit the other one, then leaned back against the hood.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Harrington asked finally.

“Something like that.”

“Me neither.”

Billy took a slow drag, watching as the smoke filtered up against the stars. You couldn’t see the stars like that in Cali. “Well, isn’t this a cute slumber party.”

Harrington laughed, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet of the night. “We forgot the midnight snacks.”

Billy’s heart thumped strangely. He wasn’t sure he’d ever had a conversation like this before. It was… normal. Relaxed. Removed of any deceit or ulterior motives.

He felt wrong-footed. That, in turn, made him tense up, while something white-hot curled in his stomach. But he remembered the sound of bone, the smell of blood, and he silently talked himself back off the ledge.

“So, why’d you move out here, then? If it’s such a shithole.” Harrington asked suddenly.

“Couldn’t tell you. You’d have to ask my dad that one.”

“You moving back when you graduate, then?”

Billy shrugged, the conversation uncomfortably close to things he didn’t like to discuss—his home life, his future. “Depends how I feel at the time.”

Harrington turned to him then, eyebrows raised. “Depends how you feel?” he echoed, then turned back to watch the sky. “Shit, man. Wish I had that kind of freedom.”

Billy laughed, and the sound was hollow, even to him. It wasn’t freedom if the only way you could make it happen was to disappear in the middle of the night. Even then, he’d always be looking over his shoulder, waiting to be dragged home at any second. But he wasn’t about to touch that conversation tonight, so he let it go.

He finished his cigarette and reached for the other one, but paused before he took it. Once he smoked that, he was out of distractions. There was nothing to drink, nothing more to smoke unless Harrington offered, which was unlikely, and he couldn’t start a fight. He didn’t even have any goddamn music, because he’d left his car at home.

Slowly, he forced his hand back down into his pocket and stared out over the quarry. He could feel his heartbeat starting to race again, urging him to do something, start something. So, he tried to distract himself by the feel of the material beneath his fingers, the cold metal behind him.

After a while, the sounds of the night filtered in, and something slowly began to shift. He began to feel calmer, whilst becoming increasingly on edge in a different way entirely. Now that he was paying attention, he was so aware of Harrington that it felt as if the guy was pressed against him, like the three feet between them had just disappeared.

When he looked over, Harrington was already watching him, a strange look in his eye.

“What are you doing?” Harrington asked, like he could see into Billy’s fucking soul—like he knew something was changing inside him.

“Dunno, man,” he said, because whatever else he was, he wasn’t a liar. Then, absurdly, “is it working?”

“Maybe.”

Billy grinned and ran his tongue over his bottom lip. If he hadn’t already been so focused on the world around him—so determined not to be distracted by a cigarette or the need for one—he might have missed the way Harrington’s eyes followed the movement.

“What’s with the bat?” he asked, searching for a way to break the strange mood and landing on the easiest option.

Harrington’s mouth drew into a grim line and he turned away. “Looking out for monsters.”

Billy’s mind returned to that night, to the way Harrington had sat in the front of the Police Chief’s car.

_Wasn’t even the worst thing that happened to me that night._

Billy had no idea what that meant, but there was a truth behind the words that he couldn’t deny. There was something going on with Harrington, and when given the opportunity to find out what it was, Billy had punched first and asked questions later.

For the first time, he felt the urge to apologise. But he didn’t know what he was apologising for, so he said nothing.

“Why aren’t you wearing something warmer?” Harrington asked. “I can feel you shivering from here.”

“It’s always cold here,” Billy said bitterly. “What’s the point?”

Harrington snorted, and then to Billy’s surprise sat up and took off his coat, handing it to him without a word.

Billy stared at it. “I’m not a chick.” The words came out in something close to a snarl.

“And this isn’t a date,” Harrington said, dropping the coat on the hood of the car. “So stop being a dipshit and just take the goddamn coat.”

Billy snatched the coat and looked away, hiding his expression for a moment while he shrugged the coat on. Harrington’s words had unsettled him, because that was exactly what this felt like—a date. Billy didn’t make a habit of hanging around with random dudes at night with no alcohol or weed to give them an excuse. It wasn’t worth the risk of his dad finding them. It wasn’t worth the mind-fuck of trying to pretend his dad wasn’t right, that it wasn’t exactly what it looked like—at least to Billy.

The second he had the coat on, he stopped shivering, the warmth of the expensive material seeping through him. He slumped back on the hood of the car, lying down next to Harrington and silently noting the fact that Harrington didn’t move away. You learned to read those things when you were queer, to look for the signs. Still didn’t mean anything, though.

“Do I get an apology yet?” Harrington asked, and, strangely, it didn’t ruin the moment.

Billy thought about it. He was forced to say that word to his dad so many times, it had lost all meaning. Sorry I fucked up. Sorry I exist. He never said that word to anyone else.

He knew that the night he had used Harrington as a punching bag, he had really been hitting his dad. And Harrington had started it, anyway.

“No,” he said, and then, before Harrington could sigh in disappointment. “Not yet.”

***

Steve hated being ignored.

It wasn’t something he had ever known about himself until Hargrove had come along, but somehow along the way he had gotten used to the guy following him everywhere. Now that had been taken away from him, he didn’t know what to do.

It was as if the other night had never happened, as if Billy Hargrove hadn’t, for one unforgettable moment, looked at him like he was water in a desert. It certainly put Hargrove’s constant attention into a totally different field of understanding. Except, that attention was gone now, and it was Steve who was left feeling parched and wrung out.

Anyway, he’d be lying if he said he’d never looked at Hargrove that way too.

He tried to make eye contact with Hargrove in the hallway, but Hargrove’s eyes slid right over him. So, Steve decided to force the issue, if only so he could remind himself of what a dick the guy truly was and shove him out of his mind for good.

He strode across the hall to where Hargrove was putting his books away and leaned one shoulder against the locker beside him.

“You weren’t with Tommy and Carol at lunch,” he said by way of greeting.

It had been strange to see Hargrove on his own, sitting on the hood of his car and smoking. So much of Steve’s impression of Hargrove was based around how the guy was constantly seeking attention, chasing a reaction. At lunch, he’d simply been sitting there.

Hargrove paused, studied him, and then said, “There’s only so much whiny trash talk a guy can take,” with a grin that didn’t meet his eyes.

His voice was low and husky, and it made something shiver along Steve’s spine.

“Yeah, Tommy can be a dick,” he agreed, trying to act normal.

“Why are you here, Harrington?” Billy asked, shutting the locker and leaning on it so they were facing each other. “I thought you didn’t want me near you.”

“I never said that.”

“What, so you do want me near you?” The grin was a little wider this time, a little closer to being real. “Why didn’t you say so, baby?”

Steve rolled his eyes and looked away. “All I said was to forget about it.”

“You wouldn’t shake my hand.”

“No, of course not.”

“That hurt.” Hargrove held his hand over his heart. “Right here.”

Steve huffed a laugh. “You’re such a jackass, you know that?”

“Then why,” Hargrove said slowly, “are you _here_? I’m staying out of your business, moving on—seems to me you’re having a little trouble with that, yourself. Now, I’m wondering why that is.”

“Something’s different, man. You said it yourself, the other night.”

Hargrove stiffened, and his expression shuttered closed. “I think we’ve had enough chit chat for today, don’t you, Harrington?”

He walked off, twirling his keys around his fingers, and Steve couldn’t think of a single damn reason to stop him.

He’d told Hargrove not to bother with an apology, but now he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He didn’t want an apology from the Hargrove he used to know, but this new one…? The one who ran out in the middle of the night, alone, and sat in silence looking at the stars? The one who kept smirking, ready to make some arsehole quip, but instead of saying it, chewed on his lip and looked away? The one who wasn’t trying to be a big tough guy anymore, but trying to be something else instead?

Yeah, he really wanted to know what an apology from that Hargrove would sound like.

***

It started, as it always did, over nothing. Max wasn’t there, Susan had gone out, and Billy was the only one around to cop the blame for something he hadn’t done.

When his dad finally let go of him, he slumped back against the cupboard and stared forward, waiting for the inevitable.

“You taking anything on board, son? Or am I wasting my time?”

“No, sir,” Billy said, the words dragging in his throat. “I’m listening.”

“And what do we say?”

Billy took a breath, held it, and then let it out slowly. “Sorry, sir.”

His dad nodded and left the room.

Billy felt like he had said that word a thousand times, and every time it took another piece of him with it. The scent of blood in the room made him think of Harrington, even though the bruises on Billy’s own face were nothing like what he’d done that night. He’d done far worse, and for far less reason.

He wanted to say sorry; he wanted to _be_ sorry, but every time he thought about it the words froze in his throat, and all he could feel was white-hot rage building and building. It was always his fault. Didn’t matter if he had nothing to do with it, or if anyone else would have done the same in his position, it was still his fault.

He couldn’t say sorry. The word didn’t belong to him; it belonged to his dad. It belonged to nights like these, and he’d be dead before he ever said it on his own.

***

When he’d first returned to school after that night, Steve had still been riding the high of being alive. No one had been more surprised than him that he’d made it through, and, as such, he hadn’t thought to pay attention to much else that was going on around him. He’d faced demodogs in the Upside Down. Again. Schoolyard politics didn’t mean shit anymore.

So, when he found himself face to face a week later with Tommy, who was spouting some bullshit about loyalty and traitors, his first instinct was to laugh. In hindsight, it was probably the laughter that got him punched in the face.

The world swayed in a flash of colour and sound, and he’d just brought himself back into focus, fist raised and ready to fight, when he realised that Tommy was already on the ground. The world swayed again when he realised that Billy Hargrove had put him there.

“Don’t fucking touch him, you piece of shit,” Hargrove hissed.

“What the fuck, man?” Tommy howled, scrambling to his feet and clutching his nose. There was blood everywhere. “What’s it got to do with you?”

Hargrove shoved him backwards. After one last look at the two of them, Tommy ran, swearing all the way.

“Er…” Steve said, trying to catch Hargrove’s eye. “Thanks.”

Hargrove wouldn’t look at him, but it was different to all the other times. There was something skittish about him, and Steve had the strangest impression that if their eyes met right now, something was going to happen.

He grabbed Hargrove’s shoulder and spun him around. Hargrove snapped, whipping his head back to glare at Steve.

“Get your hands off me,” he muttered, stepping forward so that their chests were almost touching.

Steve pulled his hand back and held them up without taking his eyes away from Hargrove. “What was that about?”

Hargrove stared at him, eyes glinting with something Steve couldn’t name. He looked down at Steve’s jaw, where Tommy had hit him. Steve could taste blood where his lip had split. For a second, he was thrown back to the other night, at the quarry; Hargrove hadn’t been able to take his eyes away from Steve’s mouth then, either.

But this was different. There was something shuttered, almost feral, in Hargrove’s expression.

“Forget it,” Hargrove said finally, before clapping Steve on the shoulder and walking away.

The whole thing left Steve feeling edgy, like something was crawling around under his skin, trying to break free. For a second, he was filled with the need to know what was happening between him and Hargrove. He wondered what might have happened if the two of them had met in different circumstances, because he was sure he wasn’t imagining this.

A prolonged stare, fingers on skin, words that hid a different meaning entirely—you learned to read those things when you were queer.

But he supposed it didn’t matter, really. They hadn’t met differently, and if Hargrove wasn’t going to make the effort to change how things were between them since the fight, then Steve didn’t see any way that anything else could change either.

***

Music drifted over the empty span of the quarry, bringing with it laughter and muted conversation. Billy stared into the darkness separating the two sides and listened. After a moment, he reached over to the stereo and turned up his music, drowning out the sounds of the distant party with When the Levee Breaks. Then he got out of the Camaro and lay down on the hood.

He hadn’t meant to react like that. Harrington could handle himself. He didn’t need Billy to step in, but something about the sound of that hit had drawn him in all the same.

He took a long drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke up towards the sky. For a moment, the stars were obscured and he felt almost like he was back in Cali. The sound of a twig breaking behind him made him grin; no prizes for guessing who that was.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Billy muttered, cigarette still stuck in the side of his mouth. “People will talk.”

“People always talk,” Harrington said, leaning against the front of the car, their positions a mirror of the other night.

Billy lit another cigarette and passed it over. “How’s your head?”

“I’ve had worse.”

A flash of something bitter twisted in Billy’s throat. He swallowed it down.

“Tommy’s a little shit,” he said instead.

Harrington said nothing, and Billy focused on the red glow of his cigarette, fighting not to say the words that were on the tip of his tongue.

He shouldn’t have lost control. He took it out on Harrington—took it too far—and nearly fucking killed him. When he’d seen Tommy take a swing today—no provocation, no hesitation—for a split second, everything had faded away and all he could see was Harrington passed out and bleeding on the floor. He could have died. He could have fucking died, and that was it, no coming back. Billy should know that.

And Harrington didn’t even care. He wasn’t out for revenge, wasn’t making Billy say sorry—he’d somehow just moved on like it had never happened, even though everything had changed.

“I can’t say it,” Billy said suddenly, before his brain had caught up to his mouth. Then he grimaced and thunked his head back against the car, then did it again just for the feeling of cold metal against his skull.

He sat up and saw Harrington watching him warily.

“I can’t fucking say it.” He lifted his hands in the air and stared out across the quarry as the sound of Led Zeppelin swallowed up the rest of the night noises.

“Because you don’t mean it?” Harrington asked.

“Of course I mean it.” He ran a hand through his curls and then jabbed the side of his head rapidly, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest. “Every time I close my eyes, I remember you lying there, man. What were you fucking thinking, letting me go that far?”

Harrington laughed incredulously. “You’re blaming _me_?”

Billy closed his eyes. “No.” He took a deep breath. “No, I’m not. I just can’t say it.”

“Why not?”

That word didn’t belong to him. If he said it, he’d be giving in, giving up. His dad wasn’t even here, and he was still controlling Billy. Responsibility. Respect. What do we say?

“I mean, it sounds to me like you’re just chicken shit.”

Billy turned to stare at him. Harrington wasn’t even phased; he stood there staring out into the quarry like it was just another Tuesday night.

“I don’t know what’s going on in your head, man, but if you’re sorry, just say it.”

Just say it.

Billy sneered and opened his mouth to tear Harrington a new one, when the scene in front of him shifted, swimming in front of his eyes. Harrington’s face grew bloody, his eyes closed and still. Billy’s heart thudded in his chest. He’d nearly killed him—nearly fucking killed him, and for nothing.

He’d hit Harrington like he was hitting his dad, like his dad was hitting him. And now, Billy was going to give his dad control over this too?

Billy threw the cigarette down and ground it beneath his boot, sneering. He _wanted_ to make it up to Harrington. He wanted Harrington to know how sorry he was. This apology was nothing like the piece of shit words his dad made him say.

His dad didn’t get to have this. This was his.

“I’m sorry for hitting you. I nearly fucking killed you. I’m sorry.”

The words sounded too loud in the clearing, just like Billy’s heartbeat. He swore that if he looked down, he’d be able to see it thudding beneath his skin.

Harrington turned to him, cigarette slack in his mouth, eyes wide. Billy watched his eyes drop to the bare skin of Billy’s chest and run along the line of his shirt, open to the naval.

Billy’s breath hitched. You learned to read those things. It might mean something.

Harrington’s eyes lifted back to his. “Thank you.”

Billy grunted and turned back to the quarry. The music filled his ears, and for once all he could smell was the crisp night air and the cologne of the boy beside him. Harrington shifted closer, pressing their shoulders together; it felt like Billy was leaning into a fire.

“What are you doing?” Billy asked, his voice sounding like it was dragging over gravel.

“Don’t know,” Harrington said quietly. “Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

“Have I read this wrong?”

Billy turned to him just as the red glow of Harrington’s cigarette faded away. He leaned forward and plucked it free, dropping it to the ground. Then, he leaned forward and slid his lips against Harrington’s. The half second before Harrington kissed him back was terrifying, but he forgot it the second their mouths parted and they fell into a languid kiss that was different to any Billy had ever had before. The heat of rage that burned constantly beneath his skin faded away, and a different heat took its place.

And for once, it wasn’t too far. It wasn’t too far at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this was a little too quick, particularly at the end, but I don't know if I'll ever have time to come back to this fic or to write more for this ship, so I wanted to post anyway.


End file.
